


gods of the infinite skies

by omaidoggo



Category: ONEWE (Band)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omaidoggo/pseuds/omaidoggo
Summary: Hyungu often dreams of the stars, both day and night. He is unsure why, but in the expanse there is an odd comfort, a voice, almost, calling him home.Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t understand the world that he wonders about the beyond.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	gods of the infinite skies

_the glittering abyss of the galaxy calls._

_he hears them, clearly._

_it is in its promise of an end he finds home_

_tucked far away behind fear._

_a sense of wonder is all that’s left at_

_the_ _end of its path —_

_an end leading to a new beginning_

_as it continues into the grasp of the infinite sky._

Hyungu often dreams of the stars, both day and night. He is unsure why, but in the expanse there is an odd comfort, a voice, almost, calling him home.

He’s walking back to his apartment when it resonates deep within him. It’s in the flowers along the park, the chill of the breeze, and the certain shade of gold the evening sky turns in spring. The colors, the sounds, the cold rattle him to the core and remind him there is much more to this world than he has seen in his short twenty two years, and he can’t help but feel there is something missing to it all.

Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t understand the world that he wonders about the beyond. He picks at a rose along the path — he knows he shouldn’t — and tries to see the brilliance he’d seen bloom perhaps eons ago. That too, he knows, he shouldn’t.

“A boy fell from the roof last night.”

Hyungu hears these words as he passes some grandmothers picking up litter as a neighborhood volunteer group of some sort. They discuss this piece of news with the sorrow of an outsider, more curious about the who, the where, the when rather than the why, like any other piece of news that reaches their ears. When told like this, it becomes a story heard many times, in dramas, in statistics — in cold, protective distance, the news isn’t perturbing at all.

However, the words linger with him, frigid as he presses the elevator button up to his apartment, and his thoughts begin to wander and pry. There’s no reason to it, other than a strange familiarity, a connection similar to the one he feels toward the stars. Had this boy heard their voice? Felt their promise of home? Was he too searching the stars for answers?

On his balcony he sighs, releasing those thoughts to empty air. With closed eyes picturing the single star in the city lights, he wishes the best for the boy, and hopes he finds his answers within the grasp of the infinite sky. Perhaps he could send them back to Hyungu too when he does, if he was looking for them in the first place.

Kendo is about the only thing that can ground his thoughts. The precise movements of the art require the utmost focus, and any break in concentration is sure to lead to doom that not even a resolute shout can mend. He stamps his foot as he strikes, wood clashes with wood, and in the reverberation he feels real.

As of now, he’s preparing for some upcoming competition. He’s forgotten the details (he really should write it down somewhere), but he knows of some impending deadline looming over the horizon. It’s a struggle to swallow and conceal his nerves — but with another swing of the blade, he finds he has nothing to worry about.

It turns to afternoon, and Hyungu leaves training behind for a quick lunch. His feet carry him to the cafe he likes, and he passes by numerous small businesses on the way, names and wares simply a blur even with their garish signs grasping for attention. (He wonders how they survive in such a harsh environment, roots of roses trying to grow into stone. Many won’t make it, and sorrowfully their livelihoods wither.)

The only thing that stops him is a detour in the sidewalk, carved out of the air with yellow tape, surrounding a cracked portion of concrete at the door of a lightless store. It must have doubled as a residency — laundry still hangs loose overhead. He makes his way around it and makes note of the glimpse into the stranger’s life. Surely, something bad must have happened here.

When Hyungu’s done with lunch, he makes his way back to the studio, taking enough turns to avoid the misfortune rearing its head in broad daylight. The masters are discussing what to teach the students today, though he pays no mind as he smuggles in a few more moments of practice in the meantime. He knows what they’ll teach anyway: it’s all the same movements he’s known his entire life. Thus, he practices, repeating the strokes and reciting the cries (which he knows defeats the purpose of the fighting spirit) as he waits.

The students arrive for their practice bloc — but something’s missing. There’s a pocket of glittering dust where there should have been a student, and in this unfilled space something claws at the hole forming in his chest. Isolation ravages at the edges of his being, and the draw of the galaxies begin to take him off his feet now burning with ice, and he’s reminded again of the _something missing_ in his life. In the glinting dust, stars fill his eyes.

_Please. Come back._

The afternoon passes into evening, and the students filter out of the studio, leaving Hyungu in that space, alone.

He’s unsure of when the equipment is all cleaned, but the masters dismiss him, and he takes tentative steps into the spring air. The golden rays circle around the sun, and for a moment it looks ready to burst, to reveal the secrets hiding within its heat fused core. If it were to open, perhaps Hyungu could find his answers. Perhaps it would be like a gate, one that he could step through and find his way home.

It’s a ridiculous thought, but one that seems oddly plausible.

He’s walking back to his apartment when the breeze picks up, unexpectedly cold despite the sunlight. A rose blooms along his path, and he brushes through the petals despite his better judgement, a single petal falling into his hands his reward for meddling. It flutters through his fingers, and the longing tugs at his heart again, the voice ever echoing in that empty space in his life, one he does not know how to fill, nor where it is to fill it. Is it made of dust, drifting ever toward each other in hopes of becoming more? Or is it a black hole, insatiable, the sad remains of a once ambitious star? Bitterly, the second seems more familiar, but he wishes it weren’t that way.

Around the park there are grandmothers picking up litter, hunched over although their backs would probably thank them more if they didn’t. It’s a brief moment, but the voice of one flickers dark, hushed and concerned.

“Did you hear? A boy fell from the roof last night.”

The news is strangely familiar, but perhaps it’s the tragedy of the ever climbing suicide rate. He doesn’t think too much of it — he’s had enough bitterness today — as he enters the elevator, yet like the emptiness of before, the resonance threatens to tear him apart.

Who was that boy?

The sky is golden when he awakes. No… no, he couldn’t have slept through the whole day. He’s never done this before, why now? (Yet this feels like a lie he tells himself.) He can’t afford to lose a day of training, with the end so near-

The end?

He checks his phone with no discernable time on the screen. The emptiness- it’s… it’s too much. Through clouds of dust and icy tears, he punches in the numbers of his pin, tries to find the numbers of Mom, Dad, but they’re not saved. They’re not saved — and no matter how much he rakes his memory, he can’t find or remember what they are. How is he supposed to find them? How is he supposed to tell them?

How is he supposed to say goodbye?

He staggers out of the apartment. It’s cold. It’s so cold. The roses along the path have withered away, and the grandmothers are nowhere to be found amongst the litter in the field. It’s coffee cups from his favorite shop, yellow tape, and an empty spot in the studio.

Where is everyone? The doors are unlocked- did the masters leave without checking? The golden rays fall through circular windows, leaving an imprint of glittering dust in the corner, and a sudden sense of loss.

“Did you hear? A boy fell from the roof last night.”

Words lost within a cavity of space, drawn out and elongated as gravity warps the fabric of time itself. Hyungu runs. He runs through the streets, to the shop — the laundry’s gone — and finds no one’s here — realizes no one has ever been here in the first place. He peers into the glass, and only the stars look back to greet him.

_Please. Come home._

And his heart slows, and time stops. 

Even the breeze refuses to blow, and golden warmth seeps into the crevices of the concrete. 

Weeks, months, years, perhaps, have passed, spent and condensed within a single day — a feat of physics only found within the depths of black holes.

This, he realizes, as he wonders just how long he has been here, aching, alone.

This, he realizes, as he looks into the emptiness of his heart, finds it can breathe again, rested from the weariness of the world, and longing, now, for those most dear to him.

He had, perhaps, placed himself here, yet it was the gods that placed him _here._

This, he realizes, seeing his own face at his feet.

The wind picks up, and he looks to the sky. Golden rays herald the dawn, descending gently, yet powerfully upon the world. The borders of the city begin to burn away into blinding light, and Hyungu stares down the gate opening within the sun — a blazing shadow drawing nearer and nearer until it touches the tip of his nose, and he sees their faces, so strange, yet so familiar crowded in the dust.

_Ah._

_I see._

He closes his eyes, smiling.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☀ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Guys! Hyungu!”

“He’s awake… Guys. Guys!”

“Hyung!”

“Oh my- Hyungu-ah!”

He hears their voices. When the light fades away, the pain of a thousand days spent without rest suddenly weighs his body. Yonghoon, Harin, Dongmyeong, Giwook crowd around him, their brows knit with concern at the sound that comes out of his parched throat.  
But he sees them — and he smiles.

“Hey.”

And there are no questions asked — only their gentle arms wrapping around him as best they can as he lays in bed with casts around his broken bones, remembering the sorrow, the emptiness, the loneliness, remembering that night that had brought him here in the first place. But he can forget these things now, even if it’s just for a moment. For a moment, he feels everything will be alright… for a moment, everything  _ is _ alright.

It’s within the embrace of his friends he had pushed away in the depths of despair, his friends he had forgotten in its eternity, his friends who had called out to him in that abyss that he finds home—

Home, amongst the gods of the infinite sky.

**Author's Note:**

> hi  
> i guess this is sort of a vent piece(?) inspired by parting and regulus  
> i think more than anything when dealing with mental health issues, there are times when i just want the world to stop so i can catch my breath and keep going. i tried portraying that here, but meh.  
> thank you for reading! i hope this brings some sense of comfort to someone who is struggling. remember you're not alone.


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